THE MYSTERY OF BERENICE
Over the picturesque Welsh mountains the wind blew fresh, even though
the afternoon was a brilliant one in August.
Outside the great Marconi wireless station high up at Ceunant, midway
between Carnarvon and Llanberis, Geoffrey stood with Sylvia and her
mother, explaining the huge aerial system with its ten masts, each
four hundred feet high, placed around the cluster of white buildings
comprising the power-house, transmission rooms, and other departments.
The tall masts dwarfed the buildings beneath them, and both mother and
daughter gazed up at them wonderingly when Falconer explained that from
them messages had actually been sent through the ether and received
clearly at Sydney, a distance of twelve thousand miles.
They had spent a most interesting afternoon watching the commercial
messages, most of them in code, being transmitted to Belmar, on the
opposite side of the Atlantic, and now the car was waiting to take
them back to Carnarvon where they were staying the night at the Royal
Hotel. They had all three travelled down by the Irish Mail from Euston
to Holyhead, arriving there in the morning, and after breakfast at the
hotel the car had taken them out to Ceunant, where they had lunched
with the engineer-in-charge, and Geoffrey had afterwards acted as their
guide, making full explanation of all they witnessed.
“Wonderful!” declared Sylvia as they entered the car. “The public speak
airily of wireless, yet they little know to what marvellous perfection
it is being brought.”
“That’s so, dear,” replied the South American widow. “I’m sure we’re
awfully obliged to Geoffrey for showing us the station. It is a
privilege accorded to very few.”
“Well,” laughed Geoffrey, “the company certainly do not encourage
the merely curious. Otherwise all our stations would be overrun with
visitors.”
The drive back through Llanrug to old-world Carnarvon was delightful,
and after tea Sylvia and her lover took a stroll through the town as
far as the great mediæval fortress which is washed on two sides by the
waters of the Menai Straits and the Seiont. They were shown the Eagle
Tower, where the first Prince of Wales was born; the Queen’s Tower, and
the other historic portions of the fine old castle, and then returned
to the hotel to rejoin Mrs. Beverley.
Later on, while they were at dinner, a tall, good-looking, dark-haired
young man entered and glanced around to find a seat.
Instantly Geoffrey recognised him as Jack Halliday, an old schoolfellow
at Shrewsbury, who was now a mining engineer, and was rapidly rising
in his profession. The men greeted each other warmly, and on being
introduced to the two ladies, the newcomer was invited to a vacant seat
at their table.
“When I last met you, Jack, you were just going out to Peru,” Geoffrey
said.
“Yes, that was a couple of years ago--wasn’t it? I did some prospecting
in the Andes, and was quite successful,” replied the young man. “Now
I’m off to Egypt for a trip.”
“How lovely!” remarked Sylvia. “I wish you’d go to Egypt, mother.”
“Mine will not be a very comfortable journey,” said the young man. “I’m
going prospecting.”
“In search of mines?” asked Sylvia.
“Yes. There is believed to be a rich deposit of gold at a spot a little
to the south of the ancient city of Berenice, on the west coast of the
Red Sea, not far from Cape Ras Benas. I have obtained from the Egyptian
Government a permit to prospect.”
“How extremely interesting!” remarked Mrs. Beverley. “What makes you
think that gold is there?”
“Well, it appears that after Pharaoh Ptolemy II founded the port about
three centuries before the Christian era, gold was discovered in
considerable quantities about eight miles off. For several centuries
the mines were worked, until, with the destruction of the city, they
were also obliterated,” was Halliday’s reply. “Quite recently, however,
my friend, Professor Harte, the well-known Egyptologist, has been
exploring the ruins, and among the hieroglyphic inscriptions there, he
found mention of the mines and of their richness. Therefore, it is my
intention to endeavour to locate them.”
“I wish you every success, Jack,” exclaimed Geoffrey. “You certainly
deserve it, for you’re always on the move.”
“And you meet with a good many adventures when you are on prospecting
expeditions, I suppose?” remarked the widow.
“Well--a few,” he answered modestly. “It is a pretty rough life
sometimes, but one gets used to it,” and his bronzed face relaxed into
a merry smile.
The party spent an enjoyable evening together, and while Geoffrey
gossiped with the rich widow, his friend Jack had a long chat with
Sylvia.
They all retired to bed early, and were up betimes to the usual country
hotel bacon-and-egg breakfast, the habit from which the Englishman,
however cosmopolitan, can never break himself. In northern Europe they
eat cheese for breakfast, in the south the horse-shaped roll with
coffee, but the Briton must ever have his eggs-and-bacon in no matter
what climate.
On arrival at Euston that evening they parted, and Geoffrey went
back to his work in the research department at Chelmsford. He was
experimenting with the four-electrode valve, the latest and most
scientific invention applied to wireless reception.
Hour after hour, and day after day, with his telephones clamped over
his ears, he experimented with new circuits, new inductances, and new
condensers, the main object being the application of wireless telephony
to commercial and household requirements in opposition to the heavy
cost of construction and maintenance of land lines.
Many of the experiments in that great, well-lit room had given
marvellous results, which when made public, would cause amazement
throughout the world.
One afternoon, ten days later, Geoffrey met Jack Halliday in London.
The latter was busy preparing his outfit for the expedition to recover
the mine of the ancient Egyptians. Falconer was walking along the
Strand not far from Marconi House when they accidentally came face
to face. With Halliday was a man of about forty, smartly-groomed and
well-set-up, apparently an ex-officer, with a well-dressed and rather
pretty young woman. The man’s name was Gilbert Farrer, and the girl’s
Miss Beryl Hessleton.
“We’re just going along to the Carlton to tea,” Jack said. “Come with
us.”
Geoffrey accepted the invitation, and they all took tea in the
palm-court.
Farrer struck Geoffrey as quite a good fellow--a man who had knocked
about the world a good deal, no doubt. His companion seemed a smart,
go-ahead woman, who smoked her after-tea cigarette in a long amber
holder, and seemed to thoroughly enjoy it.
It was soon apparent from the conversation that they were new
acquaintances of Jack’s. He had met Miss Hessleton on a steamer between
Bergen and Hull a few weeks before, and they had met again by chance at
Ciro’s. Then she had introduced him to her friend, Farrer.
After tea, while the orchestra played softly, the conversation
naturally turned upon Jack’s expedition, for he had mentioned it to
Beryl Hessleton on the trip across the North Sea.
“Well,” said Farrer, “I wish you every good luck on your venture.
There’s no doubt that there’s gold in Egypt--and a good deal of it. I
recollect when I was at Oxford reading up a lot about the mines of the
ancient Egyptians. The workings have, I suppose, during the ages, been
buried in the desert sand?”
“Yes,” replied Jack. “The sands are always shifting, and no doubt when
the ancient city was destroyed and abandoned before the advance of the
enemy, the Egyptians took good care to obliterate their mines.”
“I expect you’ll have some difficulty in finding it,” remarked the
smart young lady between puffs of her cigarette. “Oh! how I wish I were
a man, so that I could travel and prospect. I’d love it! You’ve got
nothing to do, Gilbert. Why don’t you have a trip out to the Red Sea?”
“Ah!” laughed Halliday. “I fear you would soon wish yourself back in
London.”
Three evenings later Geoffrey, who had dined at Mrs. Beverley’s, walked
round to his club to get his letters before returning home to Warley,
when in the hall he found Jack Halliday. The latter had just looked in
to leave him a note of farewell, as he was leaving the following day
for Egypt.
“Come with me round to Bevin’s and have a bit of supper,” he urged.
“It’s my last night in town. And you can get a train home and on to
Chelmsford early in the morning.”
“Chelmsford!” laughed Geoffrey. “I can’t very well turn up at the Works
in a dinner-jacket!”
But thus pressed, he nevertheless accepted his old schoolfellow’s
invitation, and went round to Bevin’s, the smart night club close to
Portman Square.
The scene there was one of gay abandon, of reckless expenditure, and
somewhat questionable morals. Alas! how the West End has degenerated
since the war! Yet these adventures of Geoffrey Falconer have no
concern with the morals of Underground London.
Beryl Hessleton and Gilbert Farrer were there, and all four had supper,
during which Halliday told them that he hoped to win a fortune upon the
information which his friend, the famous Egyptologist, had derived from
the ancient monuments in the colossal ruins of Berenice, some of which
were quite as wonderful as those at Thebes.
“If I find this mine, I have a first-class firm into whose hands I can
easily place the concession,” he said to Falconer across the table,
amid all the gay laughter and irresponsible chatter of the assembled
company. The West End to-day only emulates the Montmartre of yesterday,
with its “Heaven,” “Hell,” and “The Red Windmill,” without counting the
“Dead Rat.”
The war has passed, but your cosmopolitan of any nation is just the
same easy-going Bohemian traveller, a gipsy whose laughing boast is
that when his hat is on his roof is on.
Such a man was Jack Halliday.
Geoffrey next day saw him off from Victoria Station with an array of
green canvas bags--long bags like those of cricketers. And with him
upon the platform stood Beryl Hessleton. The young mining engineer had
been pleasant to her, but he was rather surprised that she should take
the trouble to see him off. Geoffrey noted it, but made no comment.
About six weeks went by. One evening, having worked late in the
research laboratory at Marconi House, Geoffrey walked westward to his
club. On the way he met a middle-aged man-about-town named Franks,
whose acquaintance he had formed at Mrs. Beverley’s, and after a brief
chat, Geoffrey invited him to dine at the Grill of the Piccadilly Hotel.
While they were eating their meal a stout, white-haired man entered,
accompanied by the handsome Beryl Hessleton, who, recognising the young
radio-engineer, waved her hand across at him and smiled.
“Hulloa! Do you know her?” asked Franks with some surprise.
“Slightly,” was Geoffrey’s reply.
“H’m!” grunted the other. “A pretty cute crowd she’s in with.”
“How?” inquired Falconer.
“Oh--well. That old chap she’s with is old Daddy Whittaker--a friend of
a fellow named Farrer. The whole crowd are international crooks, so be
careful if you happen to know them.”
Geoffrey was surprised at this. But, as usual, he kept his own counsel.
It seemed that his old school chum, Jack, had got mixed up with a very
queer set. But in the West End there are queer sets on every hand, the
dancing and drug-taking degenerates of both sexes who live upon their
wits, and live very well, too. In certain circles within a mile of
Piccadilly Circus, thieves and blackmailing vampires hobnob with young
and pretty women of title, while innocent persons of both sexes fall
into the vortex of vice and gaiety.
Presently Geoffrey asked, glancing across at Beryl:
“What do you really know about her? She’s rather fond of a great pal of
mine.”
“Then I pity your pal, my dear Falconer,” was the elderly man’s reply.
Franks was a member of Wells’ and the Bachelors’, and he moved in a
very fast, go-ahead set.
“Why?” asked the young radio-engineer.
“Because of the past record of the crowd of which she is the
decoy-duck. That’s all,” was his friend’s reply. “Daddy Whittaker, who
is sitting yonder with her, is an old gaol-bird who still directs the
nefarious operations of a dozen men and women. And woe betide anyone
who falls into that girl’s net.”
Falconer, full of thought, went on with his dinner. They were out of
hearing of the girl and her companion. At last the young fellow related
how he had been at Bevin’s Club with his old schoolfellow, Halliday,
where Beryl and Gilbert Farrer had also been.
“Well, all I hope is that your friend Halliday will keep clear of that
unholy organisation,” said his companion. “They’ll stick at nothing.
But why are they friendly with your old schoolfellow? What is the
motive--eh?”
“I don’t know. He’s a mining engineer, and has just gone to the Red Sea
prospecting for a gold mine of the ancient Egyptians.”
“Ah! Then he should beware. There’s no doubt some very subtle plot
afoot. You should warn your friend to have a care.”
“I can’t get at him. He’s gone out to Cape Ras Benas, and, like all
prospectors, has not left an address.”
“That’s a pity. But when you get in touch with him again, warn him at
once to avoid Daddy and his crowd as he would a poison bowl. They’re
dangerous--very dangerous. I heard from my old friend, Superintendent
Tarrant, of Scotland Yard, all about them. You recollect the Alleyn
scandals in the papers about nine months ago? Well, old Whittaker and
the girl yonder were at the bottom of it all. They escaped prosecution
for blackmail, but they had netted over ten thousand pounds out of old
Mr. Alleyn.”
Falconer now grew suspicious of Beryl’s acquaintance with his chum. Why
had she seen him off so affectionately?
“I wonder where Farrer is to-night?”
“Farrer! Why, he’s a bird of passage--the kind of man who eats his
breakfast in London, dines in Paris, and lunches next day beyond
the Mont Cenis tunnel. He’s one of the cleverest thieves in all
Europe--with Daddy’s brain, of course, behind him,” was Franks’ reply.
Falconer looked across the crowded room to where the old man and the
girl were eating their dinner together. To others they appeared to be
father and daughter. The man had an evening paper, and now and then
glanced at it when the courses were finished.
When Geoffrey and Franks rose, the former looked across and bowed as he
went out, full of wonder and suspicion.
The days that followed proved busy days for Geoffrey. An entirely new
circuit for wireless telephony had been devised by the well-known
radio-expert, Captain Meredith, at the Works, and it was being
tested--low voltage on the anode of the valves and a high amperage on
the aerial--an achievement which had been attempted for a year with
little success. Here, however, the combined brains of the Marconi
_personnel_ were again persevering towards perfection, and it had
fallen upon Geoffrey to assist in some of the most delicate and
intricate experiments.
Hence he had but little time to go up to London to see Sylvia.
One day, about three months later, as he sat down to luncheon in
the bright, airy “officers’ mess” at the Works, one of his fellow
engineers, named Davies, seated opposite him, exclaimed:
“There’s a big find of gold just made at a mine worked by the Pharaohs
in Egypt. By Jove!” he added with a sigh, “mining seems to be more
profitable than wireless!”
Geoffrey, pricking up his ears, instantly asked:
“Where is the mine situated?”
“Somewhere on the Red Sea, close to the ruins of an ancient city--I
forget the name of the place.”
“Is it Berenice?”
“Yes--that’s the name of the place. How do you know? I was told in
London yesterday, and I was told in confidence,” Davies said.
“By whom?”
“By a fellow I know named Farrer. He’s been out there and got a
concession from the Egyptian Government. And he’s no doubt made a
fortune. I wish I were in his shoes!”
Geoffrey held his breath.
“Is your friend Farrer a mining engineer?” he asked.
“Not at all. He’s a speculator--bought the concession off somebody, I
suppose. A lucky speculation. I met him the night before last at the
Palais de Danse. He had with him a very pretty girl he called Beryl.”
“And I suppose you met an old white-haired man named Whittaker?”
“Oh, yes--‘Daddy,’ they called him,” was the reply.
“And perhaps you met them at Bevin’s night club--eh?” asked Falconer.
“How did you know that?” inquired his friend.
“Well--because I guessed it.”
“Then you also know Farrer?”
“Yes,” Geoffrey replied briefly, for the conversation had increased his
wonder and suspicion. Along the table the conversation turned, as it
always does, upon wireless research and the business of the Company,
interspersed with personal chaff. At Chelmsford there is a daily
reunion of heads of departments at luncheon, where the interchange
of ideas is always intellectual, for gathered there are men of the
greatest scientific knowledge, mostly young, all enthusiastic, and all
experts in their own branches of radio-telegraphy.
Later that day young Falconer went into the testing department where
Davies was busily engaged, and returned to the conversation they had
had at luncheon.
“Is Farrer an intimate friend of yours?” asked Geoffrey.
“Not intimate. I know Beryl, his pretty little friend. I’ve dined once
or twice with him in town.”
“Have you ever met a fellow named Jack Halliday?”
“No. Never heard the name. Why?”
“Well, because Halliday, who is an old schoolfellow of mine, is
prospecting for gold on the Red Sea coast.”
“Ah! Then no doubt Farrer has bought his secret.”
“Perhaps he’s stolen it,” Geoffrey suggested.
“No,” declared his friend. “Farrer is a real good fellow, most generous
to his friends, and one of the most upright men I’ve ever met.”
Geoffrey, reflecting upon what his friend Franks had told him, became
more mystified.
Where was Jack Halliday?
Next day Geoffrey, being in London, called at the address in Bayswater,
which Jack had given him.
The landlady said it was true that he had rooms there, but she had
not seen him since he left for Egypt. About three weeks ago, however,
she received a telegram from him, and this she produced. It had been
dispatched from Alexandria three weeks before, and asked Mrs. Gibbons
to send through Pickford’s by _grande vitesse_ his big black trunk
addressed to Cook’s baggage department at Marseilles, adding that he
was unable to return to London at present, as he was sailing for Cuba.
“And you have sent the trunk?” asked Geoffrey of the pleasant,
round-faced woman.
“It went on the day after I received the message. Pickford’s collected
it,” replied the landlady.
“What did the trunk contain?”
“Oh! of that I have no idea, except that I think Mr. Halliday kept
most of his business papers in it,” she said. “Once it was open in his
bedroom, and I saw in it a lot of papers tied up with pink tape, like
lawyers use.”
Falconer paused. Why had it been sent to Marseilles when his friend had
these rooms as his _pied-à-terre_ in London?
They were standing in Jack Halliday’s little sitting-room at the time,
and he glanced around. Mrs. Gibbons pointed to one or two souvenirs
of travel upon the walls, and a few curios upon a side-table which
she kept carefully dusted in the eager expectation of her wandering
lodger’s return.
Geoffrey Falconer left Bayswater with a distinct impression that
something was radically wrong. He could not understand why Jack, if
he were called from his prospecting upon the Red Sea coast to go
to Cuba, should have wanted his private papers sent to Cook’s at
Marseilles--that great baggage organisation through which passes half
the luggage of those going to India and the Far East.
That night he spoke to Sylvia, telling her the whole facts.
“I believe with you, Geoff, that something is wrong. Why should Mr.
Farrer, who is not an expert mining engineer like your friend Halliday,
be in possession of the secret of the Berenice Mine?”
“I mean to make it my business to inquire,” replied the young fellow.
“Jack shall not suffer if I can help it.”
Falconer did not allow the grass to grow beneath his feet, for next
day he was on the alert. The telegram had been sent by the Eastern
Company’s cable from Alexandria, but at ten o’clock that morning he
inquired of S.U.H. (Ras-el-Tin), the radio station at Alexandria,
whether the Englishman, Mr. Halliday, could be found in that city.
Half an hour later there came back a reply that inquiry had been made
at the chief post-office at Alexandria, but nobody of that name was
known there.
The next message Falconer sent was to the engineer-in-charge at Port
Sudan, on the Red Sea, south of Cape Ras Benas, asking him if he had
heard anything of the young mining prospector, Jack Halliday.
The answer by wireless was “Wait--wait--wait: for two hours.”
Geoffrey waited. Two hours later Port Sudan replied that nothing was
known of Mr. Halliday, and suggested that inquiry be made of Cairo. But
the high-power station at Abu Zabal, outside Cairo, later on answered
as follows to the experimental call-signal he had used:
“2.A.Z. from S.U.S. Reply to your inquiry _re_ mining engineer
Halliday, can obtain no knowledge of him here except that he was at Ras
Benas two months ago.”
That night Falconer went up to London, and with apparent idleness,
he lounged into Bevin’s night club. The place was crowded, and the
supper-room full after the theatre. It was not, however, long before he
espied the man he sought.
“Hulloa, Farrer!” he cried in warm welcome, and a moment later he bent
over the hand of his well-dressed companion, Beryl Hessleton. “Why, I
thought you were abroad!” exclaimed Geoffrey.
“Gilbert got back some time ago,” replied Beryl. “He’s had a lovely
time in Egypt. I only wish I had been there.”
“Yes,” said the smartly-groomed man in evening clothes, “I really had
a tophole time in Cairo. And afterwards I went up the Nile to Assouan.
There I met your friend Halliday. He’s found that ancient mine, and
I’ve bought it from him. He’s gone to Cuba.”
“Did you buy it?” asked Geoffrey in surprise. “Then I suppose Halliday
will soon be back in town again--eh?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s been engaged by some big firm of American
mining engineers to prospect for iron in Cuba, I believe. Anyhow, when
we met at the Cataract Hotel, in Assouan, he was full of it. He didn’t
seem to think that the mine in Berenice was worth very much--worked out
centuries ago, he said. So he sold it to me with the concession--lock,
stock, and barrel.”
“And you will re-sell it to a company, I suppose?”
“Perhaps. I don’t quite know yet. I’ve one or two people in the city
ready to take it up.”
“But if the mine is worked out, of what use is it?”
“I don’t think that Halliday really explored it very much. He found it,
but just at the moment he received the tempting offer from America; so
he was glad to get rid of it. I went over to Ras Benas before I bought
it, and looked into the hole in the sand which gave entrance to the
ancient workings.”
“Well, I hope you will find that it is still a rich mine. Gold is sadly
wanted now that America holds all that we had before the war.”
“That’s just it,” said the smartly-dressed man. “Old Julius Evenden
used that selfsame argument yesterday when I put the prospect before
him.”
“Then you’ve offered it to Evenden?” asked Falconer, naming one of the
greatest financial houses in the city.
“Yes, and I believe he’ll take it up. If so, it will mean a fortune for
me.”
“Oh! you always were terribly lucky, Gilbert!” laughed Beryl. “Let’s
go across and have a drink. I’m sure Mr. Falconer wants to wish you
good-luck!”
And the trio passed along to the little bar just off the dancing-room.
A Marconigram sent from Fenchurch Street to Marseilles next day by
Falconer elicited the fact, from Cook’s Agency, that the black trunk
received from London addressed to Mr. Halliday had been claimed three
days after its arrival.
Again Geoffrey inquired by wireless for a description of the man who
had claimed it, but the reply was that he was “an elderly Englishman”!
Though Geoffrey was very full of work, experimenting upon the new
circuit for wireless telephony, nevertheless he devoted all his spare
time to solving the whereabouts of his old school chum. And in this
Sylvia gladly assisted him.
By constantly spending his evenings amid the gay crowd at Bevin’s he
was able to watch Gilbert Farrer pretty closely. He often met the
sprightly Beryl, who was never loth to dance with him, Geoffrey being
an unusually good dancer, and good-looking into the bargain. So by
being on friendly terms with the girl Falconer was enabled to keep
Farrer under observation.
Farrer knew, of course, of Geoffrey’s friendship with the mining
engineer, but that fact did not concern him now that he had purchased
his interest in the re-discovered mine of the Pharaohs.
At Bevin’s, late one night, Geoffrey had been dancing with Beryl,
Farrer being absent. He had not looked in all night, and it was already
three o’clock in the morning. Geoffrey was about to return to his
club when a white-haired, benevolent-looking old gentleman, whom he
at once recognised as “Daddy” Whittaker, the notorious crook, came in
and advanced to meet the girl, who, in turn, introduced him to her
companion.
“Seen Gilbert to-night?” asked old Mr. Whittaker eagerly of Beryl.
“No; I haven’t seen him all day. He promised to take me to lunch at the
Pall Mall, but he never turned up--and he didn’t ‘’phone’.”
“Ah! he’s busy,” replied the old man in a low voice. “He fixed up that
little matter with Evenden this afternoon. They are sending out two
experts to Egypt at the end of the week.”
“What!” cried the girl. “The Berenice Mine sold! Then Gilbert’s made
his fortune! He always was a lucky fellow.”
“Yes; but he doesn’t want it known yet,” the old fellow went on
confidentially. “So say nothing about it.”
“Farrer told me about his purchase of the mine,” Geoffrey remarked
quite casually. “It’s most interesting--is it not? My friend, Jack
Halliday, re-discovered it after the secret of its existence had been
lost for two thousand years.”
At mention of Halliday the white-haired old man glanced at him quickly,
but his manner did not alter in the least.
“Yes; I believe Gilbert bought it from a man named Halliday, together
with the concession which he’s got from the Egyptian Government. Anyhow
this mine could not be in better hands than those of Evenden. Of course
it may be exhausted. But the experts they are sending out will soon
decide that.”
“In any case a company will be formed to run it, I suppose?” asked
Beryl, whereupon the crafty old man smiled knowingly, as he remarked:
“An ancient gold mine always attracts subscribers.”
Two days later Geoffrey Falconer sat in the old-fashioned room of Mr.
Julius Evenden, the world-famous financier, and made inquiry regarding
the Berenice Gold Mine.
At first the head of the great financial house, whose dealings were
world-wide, was inclined to resent undue intrusion into his business
dealings with Gilbert Farrer, until the young fellow explained that
his old schoolfellow had, owing to Professor Harte’s discovery of the
hieroglyphics, gone to the ruins of the ancient Egyptian city for the
purpose of searching for the long-forgotten mine.
“I never heard Professor Harte’s name in connection with the
affair,” said old Mr. Evenden. “Of course, he is one of our greatest
Egyptologists. Perhaps he is on the telephone,” and he rang his bell
and gave his clerk instructions to endeavour to get through to the
Professor.
Ten minutes later Mr. Evenden was speaking with the Professor, who
lived at Wimbledon, and urged him, if possible, to call at Great
Winchester Street that afternoon.
The hour fixed was four o’clock, and Geoffrey was present at the
interview.
When Mr. Evenden informed the great Egyptologist that he had purchased
all interest in the re-discovered mine from Gilbert Farrer, he stood
amazed.
“But surely my friend Halliday, to whom I gave a copy of the
inscription upon the ruins of the Temple of Isis at Berenice, and whom
I trust implicitly, would never have parted with his interest in the
mine without first consulting me!” he cried.
“Here is the transfer,” replied Mr. Evenden, handing the Professor a
document. “It was signed before a French Notary-Public in Alexandria
you will see.”
The old Professor adjusted his pince-nez, and after reading the
document carefully, examined the signature.
“That is forged!” he declared at once. “I know Jack Halliday’s
signature extremely well. I have some of his most recent letters here,”
and he took several letters from his pocket. These all three examined
very closely. Some were signed “Jack,” others “J. Halliday.” But in
no case did the signature on the document exactly correspond with the
signature on the letters!
“You see the last letter was dated from Alexandria six weeks ago, and
speaks of his success, and his intention of coming straight home,” the
Professor remarked.
“Then where is he now--and why has his luggage been sent so urgently to
Marseilles and claimed?” asked Falconer.
Mr. Evenden thereupon became suspicious, and related his dealings with
Gilbert Farrer, and how he had already paid him a considerable sum on
account, until the reports of the engineers he was sending to Egypt
should be forthcoming.
“There is no doubt that Halliday has re-discovered the workings,” said
the Professor. “But where is he now! He seems to have mysteriously
disappeared.”
“The only man who knows his whereabouts is Gilbert Farrer,” declared
Geoffrey decisively. “For what reason was that trunk containing his
private papers sent so hurriedly to Marseilles?”
“That we must discover,” declared Mr. Evenden. “Our policy must be to
act without arousing Farrer’s suspicions,” he added.
Thereupon the three sat down and evolved a plan.
The first step was taken by Geoffrey, who, through Beryl, discovered
the whereabouts of “Daddy” Whittaker. Next day he met him by
appointment in the Park, and as they were walking together, Sylvia, who
was dressed as a tourist, took a secret snapshot of them as they passed.
This photograph was quickly developed, and that same night Falconer
left with it for Marseilles.
Two days later he showed it to the employé at Cook’s baggage depôt,
who at once, and without hesitation, declared the elder man to be the
person who claimed the trunk addressed to Mr. Halliday. The trunk had
been signed for and taken away on a taxi-cab. The signature in the book
was that of “J. Halliday.” But it certainly was not Jack’s!
Geoffrey took the _rapide_ back to Paris that night, sorely puzzled.
What had become of his old chum? Marconigrams were sent broadcast in
search of him. The passenger lists of six ships sailing from Marseilles
to Cuba were examined, but in no case was there any trace of any such
person in the lists.
Early in the morning, as the express halting at Laroche awakened him,
it suddenly crossed his mind that Jack’s identity was being obliterated
by some clever combination of the crooks. In Paris he would go to the
Bureau of the Sûreté and make inquiries.
At noon he was in the dull, drab office of the famous French detective,
Gaston Meunier, to whom he told the story, and asked whether he thought
his friend had met with foul play.
The little bald-headed official raised his shoulders and replied that,
in view of the fact that the trunk had been sent to Marseilles, it was
quite possible that Monsieur Halliday had returned from Egypt to France.
Then they went into dates. Afterwards the great detective rose, and
left him. Ten minutes later he reappeared, having a number of police
photographs of persons who had been found dead, suicides, and those
wilfully murdered, whom the police both in Paris and in the Departments
had failed to identify.
The period covered was six months.
With great eagerness Geoffrey Falconer examined one after another--many
of them pictures of recovered bodies, a terrible, gruesome
collection--when at last he came across the picture of a man lying face
upward on the grass.
“That’s Jack!” he exclaimed wildly. “I have no hesitation in
identifying him!”
Monsieur Meunier turned to the back of the large unmounted photograph,
and read what was written there as follows:
“An unknown. Supposed to be English. Discovered at 7.10 a.m., on
October 28th, behind a small pottery factory, a mile from the village
of St. Uze, close to Valence, Department of the Drôme. The medical
examination showed the person to have died from some vegetable
poison. It is believed that he was deposited at the spot during the
night from a passing car. No arrest has been made. Any details of
identification to be sent to the Prefect of the Drôme.”
Three days later Geoffrey arrived at Charing Cross accompanied by an
agent of the Paris Sûreté, who at once applied for the arrest and
extradition of the adventurer, Gilbert Farrer.
This took place when Farrer called at Mr. Evenden’s office next
day--and two months later, at his trial before the Assizes of the
Seine, the clever assassin who had stolen poor Jack Halliday’s secret
was sentenced to penal servitude for life.
At the present moment he is still in the convict prison at Lyons, while
his friend Beryl and “Daddy” Whittaker, who were both deeply implicated
in the plot, were each sentenced to fifteen years’ penal servitude at
the Old Bailey.
The great Berenice Gold Mine is being worked with huge success, but the
profits which should have been poor Jack’s are being paid regularly to
his widowed mother, who lives in seclusion in Pembrokeshire, deeply
mourning the loss of one of the finest and bravest of Englishmen.